Two Villains Walk Into A Bar
by forgedcomplexity
Summary: Maxwell Lord and Loki take on the world in quite a spectacular fashion. One thing's for sure, the Avengers and Thor in particular are in for a surprise.
1. Two Villains Walk into a Bar

**Chapter 1: Two Villains Walk Into A Bar**

Maxwell Lord was a glorious bastard, and he knew it. It was just fine with him that no one else did. In fact, he'd like to keep it that way. After all, wiping his existence off of the face of the planet and the minds of the masses was no easy feat, even for his particular brand of mind trickery. But, all in all, it was a worthwhile gamble; the headache and blood loss had only taken months to subside, while the club of do-gooders known as the the justice league would have taken lifetimes- his lifetime in particular- to forget his betrayal. Glory hounding aside, it was the practical thing to do. Besides, it would make the big reveal just that much more satisfying, and they would see that he'd done it all for them. The metahuman race didn't know what they were capable of, what they could and would do, some day, if things were left to chance. But, Max did. He knew what each and every one of them could do, dreamed of doing, and would do, given the chance, and he wasn't willing to take on those odds.

It just wasn't his style.

But after a lifetime of stacking the cards in his favour, kicking anyone that stood in his way in the proverbial shins, it was rare that he'd met anyone on equal footing. After all, it was that much easier to reason with folk when you had the upper hand, full of hidden aces, blackmail and get out of jail free cards just up your sleeve. Max Lord, after all, was a game unto himself, but, admittedly, it got lonely playing dirty when no one even /tried/ to win anymore. While that might just have something to do with the fact that no one actually knew the game was still on, and that they were still the key players, it was all rather lack lustre, this whole behind the scenes devilry. This is why he had upped the ante and found a new playmate of his own.

But what do you do when you're faced with a renowned cheat and a god at that? You up the stakes, plan a dozen extra escape routes, and never ever play by the rules. Perhaps even resort to arson. Max was good with arson. It'd undoubtedly heat up the game, and burn any traces of himself he'd deigned to leave behind. Max looked around the bar. It shrouded its patrons in the flickering shadows of poor lighting, probably deliberately, obscuring the fact that it was not the most sanitary of establishments. They were ultimately an unpresuming congregation of bawdy snickering unshaven unkempt, slightly rude (but that just might be the kind of patriotic American -and sometimes racist- slurs one spouts when intoxicated), drunkards. They weren't the best of company, but most of its visitors wouldn't even remember if they'd seen their own mothers dancing naked in front of them for half the night, let alone the wayward cockroach, dead man and god. Even if there had been sober witnesses, there was the reassuring fact that the bar's owner hadn't quite complied with the fire department's safety requirements that year.

It was the most innocuous of death traps, the appropriate place for a game of life and death to be wagered, if he could say so himself.

"You game?"

Max smirked, dealing out a deck of cards whilst marvelling at his companion's practiced poker face. Loki, on the other hand, was a wily sly fox of a thing, and no stranger to games. He matched Max's smirk and upped him a full blown shit eating grin.

"But of course."

Loki picked up the pile of cards that lay in front of him casually, and watched them arrange themselves into a fan in his hand. But one of the perks of being a God.

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve. And this time, I don't plan to lose. "

Max disregarded the godly party trick and packed the cards tightly in his palm, laughing.

"It's hard to lose, especially when you don't play by the rules… but, of course, as with all things, there are still terms to be discussed, certain deities that certainly can and will go above and beyond our little game …"

Loki grinned wider; spreading out his hand on the table, in a row.

"Of course. Not to worry. I have it covered. They're all in the palm of my hand. It's only a matter of time before they all fall into their rightful place."

Loki taking the spread of cards face down in front of him, tapping each one of them deliberately till they all fell face up. A royal flush.

"Midgard... will be yours."

Loki picked up the Jack, crushing it within his fist, before letting it burn to a crisp in the palm of his hand, crumbling the ashes onto the table.

"And there's nothing brother dearest can do about it."

Max only smiled smugly, and placed his own hand face-down.

"Let the games begin."

Later that night, at that very bar, the pair had played a winning hand. The first of many.

For the bar hadn't been your ordinary run of the mill death trap, in fact, it wasn't even your ordinary run of the mill bar. It was, however, your regular run of the mill place of shady dealings, for its barkeep did not only turn a blind eye to the appropriate legal mandates the fire department putout, he also kindly ignored the legal moral scruples that dissuaded commonplace folk against housing known criminals. Among its regular patrons were bank robbers, some of the best highwaymen in the city and even your occasional super villain out of a lair, and down on their luck, alike. As the barkeep would humorously add, to his concerned gossiping aunts and incredulous relatives, they weren't bad people; they just had terrible day jobs. In fact, they were the very reason that the barkeep could even keep this run down place running. Supervillains, apparently, make excellent tippers. Especially when the odd superhero busts through the door of your establishment, breaking several tables on his way in, and the odd window for a titbit of information. They were just polite like that, the barkeep supposed, if albeit a tad prone to damaging his property and fits of dark laughter. They also liked dark corners. But that's a story for another day.

The barkeep and his bar had thought he'd seen it all and weathered through it: heroic and villainous rampages alike, a sobbing villain in spandex covered in ketchup, the odd portable death ray and the occasional super powered brawl that compromised the structural integrity of the otherwise sturdy architecture. But he didn't see this coming. He couldn't have, on the account of him being dead and all.

There were, however, those that had seen it coming.

"A bit of an overkill?"

"They all walk around in brightly coloured spandex and capes…."

"….I wear a cape."

"My point exactly."

And those who had thought they had seen it coming. Dozens of witnesses, who despite their reluctance to be named, which is of course understandable, were less than hesitant about their impassioned recounts of just what they'd saw that night….and who…

What had started with a bang, or namely, an explosion, grew into a panicked wave of rumours told in hushed tones before finally being blown up in one of those righteous media circuses as a string of tragic deaths and equally impassioned recounts continued strong. It hadn't helped that there were a string of mysterious vigilante murders of known super villains soon after.

The bar hadn't been the ordinary run of the mill tragedy either; it was one of those tragedies that inspired processions. It was one of those tragedies that not only sprung to infamy, forging black and white smiling portraits on the front of newspapers, but also seeded those sneaky grass-root political campaigns, creating fortunes, political careers and ruined reputations alike.

For this wasn't only a tragic loss of life, it was an inspired creation of a martyr with a cause. An enemy with a face just in the public's reach whilst another lurked just in the shadows.

And, if there was anything Max Lord knew how to do, this was it. And it was beautiful.


	2. A Public Relations Nightmare

**Chapter 2: A Public Relations Nightmare**

Being a hero had its perks. There was the free parking, the keys to the cities, the parades, the much too adoring fan base. Yet, heroism, like many professions in the public eye, had its pitfalls, and the recent bad press and rain of rotten tomatoes that followed the Avengers was the least of it. Of this Tony Stark, was more than aware. They were all at the whims of a good old fashioned media frenzy, and however much they'd like to protest, a little good will now and again went a long way. Or so he reasoned. Besides, it was the charitable thing to do. Besides, what's a little nudity to take the public's mind off of the series of increasingly defaced corpses of super villains turning up on the street corners these days?

Captain America had blushed, spluttered incoherently, before protesting weakly about modesty.

Thor frowned before questioning if it would quell the people's doubts to see the true strength of their protectors.

Hawkeye made smart ass comment as to their strength being the least of their prized assets in this admittedly altruistic venture.

Black Widow had looked at them all appraisingly, giving them the good old once over; lingering on Hawkeye's proclaimed assets and smiled mysteriously, before muttering something about... compromising national security by making...prized assets public knowledge. She then made a passing comment about actually dealing with the root of the problem: the unknown vigilante parading in superhero garb running their good name into the ground.

This had left the Avengers in the less than fashionable garb of a baseball cap and shades, fully clothed mind you. A true superhero-sleuth disguise if there ever was one. They were going to catch themselves a criminal-killer.

It was a day just like any other; David Cannon was minding his own business, walking down the sidewalk with a bag of groceries in hand, and an image of a pretty young brunette buzzing in his mind. He wasn't wearing his usual green armour, nor was he donning his alter-ego of Whirlwind, dashing villainous bastard extraordinaire anytime soon. David Cannon was a bastard, a creep, a villain, but if there was one thing he wasn't: that stupid. He'd planned to lay low a couple of days, perhaps spend some private time with a lady willing to play dress up till the whole Villain Vigilante business blew over.

But Max had other plans for young David. Plans that didn't involve rose oil, scented candles and a bed for most of that weekend.

In fact, Max planned to have young David on his knees, dazed out of his mind, a bit worse for wear and more than willing to do anything for him.

Max smiled, it wasn't easy being this mind-blowing.

The Avengers were used to patrolling the streets in spandex and brightly coloured garb. They weren't, however, used to patrolling out of costume. And they found the less than adoring public less than indulgent for their usual antics and more than paranoid of a shady characters hanging about their place of business this late at night. The adoring public were rather rude, unappreciative little bastards weren't they?

That is, unless you were Tony Stark.

Tony Stark smiled, discretely signing Stark merchandise left and right

"Well...that was productive. Do you think she'd really get that tattooed on her..."

Steve Rogers, Captain America, blushed in memory, gritted his teeth and growled

"That's disrespectful. We shouldn't be talking about..."

"We shouldn't be talking about this at all. I thought the whole point to this exercise was to go, I don't know, unnoticed?"

Hawkeye retorted. Running a hand through his hair haphazardly, a tad bit miffed that no one had asked for his autograph.

"Now, boys, play nice. Clint, if you'd really like to sign my..." A strangled cough from Steve. "I'd be glad to oblige."

Thor, having been less than familiar with the concept of a signature, continued. "I'm sure I could inscribe runes of protection into your skin too if you'd like."

It was then, that the banter was cut short, as Hawkeye frowned, recoiled slightly, and added, "Guys. Ego-stroking aside, you did notice the oh-so inconspicuous blood trail leading to that alley... I'm sure it's all decorative and all, but perhaps we should check it out".

The Avengers sprung into action, changing out of their civilian disguises, surrounding the area, closing it off from civilians, and coming in from various angles just in case they were to be ambushed. As they closed in on the dark secluded alley, the trail of blood was spread across the pavement in huge swipes; a canvas of brutality. It made for a gruesome and dramatic sight.

The Avengers recoiled, momentarily stunned as they stared at the bloodied, bruised and battered form of David Cannon.

Max laughed, thoroughly amused, watching from the shadows of a window of an otherwise occupied apartment overlooking the scene. The occupant, an unassuming lady in her mid fifties named Linda, didn't seem to notice the intrusion and instead went about making a cup of tea whilst humming happily to herself. She wouldn't recall ever entertaining any guests that evening. Just like she wouldn't remember that ever nice gentleman stopping by her apartment that afternoon delivering an unexpected bouquet of flowers, which were sitting quite beautifully on her bedroom dresser, nor would she recall him leaving, or staying. Max made sure of that. No matter, Linda made for a passable host, especially when she wasn't quite aware he was even there regardless of his softly whispered witty commentary.

"Well, well! I wasn't expecting any guests of any importance to drop by. What a pleasant surprise. So good of them to take a front row seat on young David's breakout performance. I guess having a god by your side is as good a good luck charm as any."

"Why, you're very welcome."

Loki emerged from the shadows, dressed impeccably in a rather fetching three piece suit, he replied with a sly smile.

"And, even gods need to make their own luck, Mr. Lord. This spout of good fortune is no exception."

Max smiled widely. "You make it seem so easy."

Loki returned the smile with a smirk before replying, casually leaning against the wall whilst eying the lady tenant with interest. "That's because, to me, it is."

Max chuckled, it was a show of ego that few else could pull off, and he appreciated it. Max inclined his head, and said warmly.

"You might want to move, she's going to drop that cup of tea ...right about now."

At that moment, everything for the Avengers, went to hell with a rather delicate tinkle of breaking china. Loki and Maxwell Lord, on the other hand, remained relatively unscathed, not a drop of hot tea on their person in sight.

For at that moment, the young lady named Linda, saw, or thought she saw a group of young hooligans surrounding, intimidating, a trembling – bleeding- young man. They'd seemed rather familiar, but she couldn't quite place them all, not at the heat of the moment, but something in the back of her mind told her that she knew- almost instinctively- who they were.

Not one to stand by and let a man die on her watch, and with a little urging from Max, she did what any other upstanding citizen would do at that moment, she took a moment to fret about the broken tea cup, her favourite, let out a string of curse words, and called the cops.

The Avengers had stood around the cowering whimpering bloodied figure in shock; they did not know what they should do. Call an ambulance? The police? They were used to being in the heat of the action, breaking noses, taking down names, not picking up the broken bloody pieces of the innocent bystanders off the pavement.

It was a fitting lesson, Max thought, a lesson that they would learn well that evening even whilst David took them down with him.

Captain America, Steve, was the first one to move. He crouched down by the figure and said in a soft tone, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. It was a credit to his name that Steve Rogers didn't flinch as his hand came back bloody. He was used to being the runt of the litter, and used to being left in streets picking up the pieces of his own broken body. He sympathized with the broken figure more so than he'd ever like to admit.

"Are you okay?"

And at that moment, the broken heap seemed to burst into indescribable sobs, clutching at Steve's arm, leaning onto him in a half hug, half huddle, smearing blood red all over his white and blue. David, the Whirlwind, broke down, and the Avengers could not help but stare.

There were no words. No explanations. Steve Rogers just waited for the eruption of emotion to slow into deep heaving breaths, just waited for the hard grip to loosen into clumsy half hearted fingers, just waited for it all to settle.

There was silence. Then, Steve just stood there, with a reassuring smile and a softer tone.

"I'm here to help."

Unfortunately for them, so were the cops. They poured into the alley, guns at the ready, and paused. It did not look good, a bloody man surrounded and outnumbered by group of taller, stronger men (and woman). One of their number standing over the victim, covered in blood.

They had expected a robbery gone wrong, perhaps a little early morning gang violence. Normally at this point, they'd have yelled "Freeze", perhaps read them their Miranda rights whilst they were brought down to the station for questioning. But this, this wasn't part of their protocol. But it was understandable. After all, you'd hesitate when pulling your gun on your childhood heroes.

And whilst Lady Justice may be blind, but she sure rigged her scales.

The officers agreed to keep the incident under wraps. The Avengers were invited to the local precinct, just to clear up a few details: it was a bit of bureaucracy, red tape, and a hint of suspicion sowed down deep that the murders had planted, they'd understand, it'd only take a moment of their time. The bloodied David would be taken to the hospital, and they would take a statement after the doctors were done with him. It was a clandestine operation, discretion was key.

Naturally, within the hour, the press was all over the scene.


	3. A Bit of Hanky Panky

**Chapter 3: A bit of Hanky Panky**

That evening the Avengers took their first ride in the backseat of a police car. Later that night they would see the polished silver of one way mirrored interrogation rooms, drink the rancid coffee and nibble on the dried out pastries whilst shifting uncomfortably upon the hard backed chrome silver chairs bolted to the floor and beneath the onslaught of a pair of weathered detectives fastened to their every word.

It was the most in-depth tour of the precinct they'd ever experienced, complete with the disdain and harrowing suspicion of the very people they'd sworn to serve and protect.

"If this is how Batman feels every day, no wonder the poor old bat's gone off the deep end."

Hawkeye murmured, crouched tightly on a swivel chair, pressing his head against the cool wood of the table. Tony Stark stood off to one side, idly tapping on the glass of the waiting room window, smirking tiredly as his own reflection.

"The public's a fickle mistress. Bat's probably given up on wooing her over. We, on the other hand, might still have a chance. After all, you have me."

Black Widow perched on the edge of the table, legs swinging carelessly, snorted.

"Tony Stark, our very own public relations manager. God help us. We're doomed."

Thor lightly fingered Mjolnir, "It is a little late to try and curry favour from the Gods for we are already in the thick of battle, I fear that the people will turn against us before we have the chance to reach the front lines."

Tony Stark frowned and nodded in commiseration. "Whoever's behind this, they sure know how to put on a show, and we just walked centre stage on this blasted media nightmare."

Steve Rogers, who had been quietly sitting on the sofa, stood up abruptly and said, "Things may have changed within the last few decades, and I may not know much about the present, but I know this: being an avenger means more than signing autographs and pandering to the public, being an avenger is about saving lives, no matter what the stakes. It was never about the politics, never about our picture in the papers. We may stand for something great, all that's right about this country, but if they see the symbol and miss the point, what are we fighting for? I know that I won't be bullied into inaction. I've always known what I fight for: the people and what's right. Now, I ask you this: have things changed?"

An air of stunned silence in the room, Captain America stood before them, eyes blazing, staring his fellow avengers down. A click of the door opening, and a slight cough interrupted the moment of gravity and Steve turned away to acknowledge the intruding detective who gave him a slight smile, and a proud twinkle of an eye.

"Captain, I wonder if things really will change, especially when you hear this..."

And they did.

Hank was having a splendid day. He'd spent the whole day down in his lab tinkering with the electron flow of the circuit conductor, he was sure that he'd got the proton balance just right when everything went to pieces.

The Avengers were not the kind of people to knock, and Hank, well; he wasn't the kind of man to have many uninvited guests.

This all made for a terribly explosive evening.

"Guys, don't you think you should have, I don't know, RUNG THE DOOR BELL?"

Said Hank, rather frazzled from the whole affair. The Avengers did nothing to reply, rather singed from the altercation, and not quite sure if it was a deliberate attack or just one of those accidents. There were just too many accidents around Henry Pym, and they, for one, weren't quite sure how to take it. Hank, on the other hand, took it all into stride; it was, after all, just one of those things in the life of Henry Pym.

"What if I had been working on something delicate? The bio blasters are stable enough but..."

"Wait just a minute, that wasn't delicate?"

Hawkeye said in a strained tone, he was more than certain that there was a reason that Hank never had many visitors. He couldn't quite be sure if it was pure genius at work, or simply madness; but of this he was certain: not all of Hank's visitors made it out of the lab intact, and he wasn't quite sure what their fate was, given the reason they were there.

"Hank, we need to talk."

Tony Stark said, gingerly patting Hank on the arm in what was meant to be a comforting manner, but the action also doubled as a less than subtle disarming...I mean...urging to for Hank to lower his tools. Hank, on the other hand, was more than familiar with the routine and wised up. He said grimly, his grip tightening on the screwdriver in hand.

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it."

Black Widow snorted and muttered to herself.

"Such compelling testimony, how ever will we doubt you"

Thor, on the other hand, rested a quelling hand on her shoulder and shook her head. It was always a terrible thing to call into question an ally, no matter what the circumstances. Steve Rogers, who'd been looming in the background, said in a soft voice.

"Do you know David Cannon?"

"Who?"

Tony Stark took out a carefully folded picture of a bruised man in a hospital gown.

"He was found in an alley, like that, bleeding to death. He said it was you."

Hank closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn't even sure if he had the right to act surprised by the accusation anymore.

"And you believe him?"

He stared at the Avengers, each in turn, and sure enough, no one replied. Hank gritted his teeth and crossed his arms tensely.

"Alright, I'll bite. Why would I, a self professed crime fighter, beat up on some innocent bloke?"

"Because, he's the Whirlwind."

Tony Stark said, practically forcing the picture into Hank's face, before continuing.

"Because it makes sense. Because he's a villain. Because you're the only person who knows his civilian identity. Because he wanted Janet. Because he accused you of killing Janet. Because you sometimes believe him. Because, Hank, of your not so sterling track record."

Hank took a step back, and then another. He raised a hand to his head and said, simply.

"Jesus Christ. You wanted Janet and I don't see you lying in a hospital bed."

Tony Stark simply said,

"Not for a lack of trying. You have quite the aim."

"Well, maybe you should come by again sometime."

Hank said darkly, almost growling. Tony Stark narrowed his eyes, and said lightly,

"Is that a threat? Or a admission?"

The entire group of Avengers tensed and stepped forward. Hank, gripped the bio blaster that slipped into his hand tightly, and spat.

"It is what it is. I'm sick and tired of this. I know I've messed stuff up, god knows you lot won't let me forget, but you forget who founded the Avengers! I won't stand for you to accuse me of...of...in my own lab! There's a line, even for you."

A pause. Steve Rogers stepped forward, his fist clenched, and spoke softly.

"There is a line, Hank. We're just making sure that _you_ didn't cross it."

Hank laughed, his entire expression pained as he used a hand to clutch at his head. He replied in a strangled voice.

"I think you should leave. Now."

Steve Rogers, however, took another step forward and said in an equally stern tone.

"I think we should stay."

There was a tense silence. Hank grimaced, closing his eyes as if to ward off angry tears, and said in a soft venomous tone.

"It wasn't a suggestion. Leave now, before I do something I regret."

Captain America stood his ground and said in an even tone.

"We're staying."

Hank let out a derisive snort and growled,

"Fine then. I'll leave"

However, the Avengers had, somehow during the course of events, surrounded Hank, with Steve leading the ranks. Hank let out a strangled laugh, leaning back against the console.

"What are you going to do? Arrest me? Bring me in for questioning? Beat me up so I join old Whirlwind in the next bed?"

"Where were you last night, Hank?"

"I was in the lab, knitting. Oh wait, that's not right. That was last Thursday. Silly me! Now I remember. I was downtown, teaching the creep a lesson. God knows he deserves it. Maybe, just maybe, if he can remember any of it, he'd learned a lesson or two."

Hank stepped forward, and continued with a wide angry grin.

"How could I forget? I mean you'd think you'd remember beating someone up. Especially a scumbag like that. Not something you forget."

Hank, paused, looked straight into Steve's eyes with a nasty smirk.

"You know what else stands out about that night?"

Hank leaned in close and whispered.

"He cried like a little girl."

A tense silence, a challenging blank stare, but Steve didn't even flinch. A beat.

Hank smiled widely, leaned past Steve, and pushed a button. A whirring, and everything fell into darkness. The Avengers tensed, eyes peeled at the shadows, weapons drawn.

A click later, a glowing projection appeared in the middle of the room. It was the strangely familiar figure of Hank, knitting, strangely enough.

"Oh. Well, what do you know, it seems like I was just knitting after all. My bad. You guys better find another scapego- I'm sorry- suspect to pin this on."

Steve looked strangely apologetic and started, "Hank, I'm-"

Hank waved it off, and cut him off sharply. "Save it. You found your way in. You'll see yourself out I presume."

It was then that everything went dark. Again, quite literally.

Hawkeye stumbled into Black Widow, and grunted, "Hey Hank, I know you're mad and all, but…..I can't see myself, let alone the exit. Think y'can get the lights old buddy old pal?"

He received no reply save for Black Widow mumbling under her breath with a tiny smirk. "I think I can feel my way well enough."

Hawkeye, for seemingly no reason jerked back and stumbled into a series of very intricate looking panel of buttons. Miraculously, the room was awash with light, and Hank was on the floor, bleeding sluggishly from a head wound.

Stark growled, "Shit! Clint! What did you do?"

Hawkeye looked flabbergasted, glancing accusingly at Black Widow, before stuttering, "It…..It wasn't me."

Thor pulled at Hank's limp form by the shoulders to prop him against the console.

It made for a great picture. Really. A bunch of Avengers staring at Thor holding a bleeding man. It really was front page news material. In fact, it stayed that way for a few weeks. Needless to say, when the police came barging in, the Avengers were screwed.

And you know what's different between heroics, vigilante justice and just plain criminal assault and battery? Not a whole lot.

At least, that's what Max liked to think.

Max traced the edges of the television screen almost reverently with a broad smile across his face. Max muttered softly to himself as he watched the Avengers being carted off, his hands caressing a sturdy cudgel, glistening wetly with Hank's blood.

"Oh Hank, you've always been your own downfall. It's almost fitting that in the end you'll take them all down with you."

An ironic laugh. "And bring everything you've ever built up with it. I can almost relate." A sympathetic smile. "The difference between you and me, Hank, is that I always have something to fall back upon. And one of these days, you'll learn."

It was then that Loki, all smiles, leant by Max's ear and whispered, "Reminiscing about the good old days, Maxwell?"

Max, unperturbed, casually spun to face the cloaked god and said in a drawl, "We hardly have the time, with all that needs doing. I trust the Avengers are taken care of?"

Loki casually leaned in and placed a data disc from Max's lax fingers, a very familiar data disc containing the very evidence that would clear the Avengers names: the surveillance footage from Hank's laboratory in fact, and said smugly, "Locked up tight. With them waltzing out of the police station during their questioning, without nary a care, then turning up an hour later at the scene of another assault… even heroes have their limits. The detectives are eating up the trail of breadcrumbs with nary a care."

Max laughed, looked down at his fingers gripping tightly around the disk, and smiled in amusement as his hand was covered in powdery white sugar and Hank's blood. "I see you've picked up a few habits from your friends down town, they already got you hooked on the donuts, my friend?"

Loki, pulling down a police cap on his head and said, "What can I say? I'm committed till the very end."

"So, copper, you need your cudgel back for your next shift? Or do I get to keep this as a souvenir?"

"Consider it a gift."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_I have in no way, shape or form read any of these comics in my life. All of the above has been written based on the information and or under the guidance of a very obsessed- I mean dedicated- friend. So any inconsistencies are due to a lack of research (coughwikipedia) or something or rather. I'm rather amazed how much I like Max and Loki at the end of this all. Also. I kinda hate the fact that heroes get no flak and villains are thrown under the bus constantly so expect Loki/Max to be kinda kicking the Avenger's ass for quite a while yet._

_PEACE OFF._


	4. Chapter 4: The Crusade Begins

**Chapter 4: The Crusade Begins**

The Avengers sat in their cell and wondered how they got there. It had been a blur of blue and red lights, handcuffs flashing silver and bright bursts of flash photography before the dull bars of their individual cells slid close. It was merely a formality, of course, they'd hold off on the booking on account of them…being who they were. A god, a famed inventor, secret government agents and a man out of his time; it was hard enough putting records together of the un-named criminals off the streets, let alone the eclectic bunch of do-gooders. And what good would that do?

Everyone knew who the Avengers were.

Or at least, they thought they did.

They did, however, only have one phone call. It was regulation, even for heroes.

It was a pressing dilemma to know that not even their good name was enough anymore and there wasn't much else to the perks of the job, not when every action you took looked like treason.

"This hardly inspires any confidence in me, let alone your people, my friends."

Thor said, gently resting a hand on the metal bars whilst the other lay at his side, grasped at thin air for something not quite there. He continued softly, frowning, pressing harder against the cool metal, feeling it bend to his fingers before he pulled away to face the concrete wall.

"How do we lend aid, when it is not wanted? Who will they call upon? Our allies are many, Midgard has many protectors, yet even now they're beginning to fear us. All of us."

There was silence.

"Who do we call on to calm their doubts? Who can we call on to help us help Midgard even as they refuse our aid?"

Captain America, leader of the Avengers, stood with a hand on the phone and said.

"There's only one person to call. Someone who knows better than to trust in the public's fickle favour."

* * *

><p>Batman, the dark knight, the caped crusader was many things; an influential public figure with quite a bit of political clout, a crime-fighter who did what needed doing, but if there was one thing he wasn't: it was happy. Things had gone from bad to worse within the past few months, the few heroes who did lend a favourable light to his alter-ego had suddenly been cast as the same role as he comfortably encased into: a public menace. It happened quickly, and with such resounding certainty, that Bruce wasn't even sure if anyone could pay that many people to provide the array of sincere and presumably false accounts of heroic vigilantism, and even victimization of well-known powered-villains. It was puzzling. He doubted that the heroes themselves had resigned themselves to vigilante justice, however justified, too many relied on and were bolstered by the glowing reception of an adoring public.<p>

It was almost a relief that no one had actually caught any heroic figure on the scene of these acts of heroic terrorism; he'd drafted the issue as something to be passed off as just another media updraft, well, at least, until now. After a month of speculative pieces by the media, and dozens of witness reports, and a dearth of any actual physical evidence, the avengers implicate themselves quite nicely in full view of the public eye, with bow and trimmings, all in one go?

It was all a little too convenient.

Someone was planning something, and heroes needed to know to watch their step, it was hardly a novel situation… save for the fact that instead of fighting against some nameless villainy, they'd be facing down one of their trickiest foes of all: the less than adoring public.  
>Best case scenario: heroes far and wide won't see a need to defeat bad guys during the eye of the growing media storm.<p>

Worse cast scenario: heroes far and wide can't defeat bad guys during the eye of the growing media storm, and there is a need to.

Which only meant one thing: the remaining heroes needed to meet and soon. But with half the cavalry in prison, calling /him/, to bail them out, this needed to be handled carefully lest the rest of the self-named heroes were dragged back into the mud.

Bruce Wayne was many things, but most of all: he was the /lone/ crusader. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to inviting half the league, particularly not for /tea/.

* * *

><p>Booster was minding his own business (mostly) and was half-way through a particularly well-constructed beef sandwich when he choked and spat incoherently onto the console in a spray of crumbs and condiments. For a moment, he wheezed. Then, seemingly, he rubbed his eyes, and wiped the edge of his mouth on his hand and said haltingly.<p>

"Skeets. There's something wrong with the communicator."

"Sir, a scan of the computing inputs reveals no obvious signs of computing error. That is more than I can say about your own bodily facilities. Would you care to run a troubleshooting diagnostic?"

"Skeets. It's says that the Avengers, they've been arrested."

"Sir, unlike today's technology, I am quite aware of how exactly to parse out the meaning of sentences. Do you need a refresher course?"

"Something's terribly wrong."

"Sir, do not be alarmed. There has been no detected change in your physiology. The momentary lack of oxygen could not have done any permanent damage. Well. Not any more than the physical incursions you subject yourself to."

The screen, splattered still with bits of lettuce shifted from the newsfeed to a disgruntled masked /scowling/ cowl of a familiar face.

"We need to talk."


End file.
